| |
| WHAT 1 Nostradame, with all his Art, can guess | |
| The Fate of our approaching Prophetess? | |
| A Play, which, like a Prospective 2 set right, | |
| Presents our vast Expences close to Sight; | |
| But turn the Tube, and there we sadly view | 5 |
| Our distant Gains, and those uncertain too; | |
| A sweeping Tax, which on our selves we raise, | |
| And all, like you, in hopes of better Days. | |
| When will our Losses warn us to be Wise? | |
| Our Wealth decreases, and our Charges rise. | 10 |
| Money, the sweet Allurer of our Hopes, | |
| Ebbs out in Oceans, and comes in by Drops. | |
| We raise new Objects to provoke Delight, | |
| But you grow sated ere the second Sight. | |
| False Men, ev’n so you serve your Mistresses; | 15 |
| They rise three Stories in their Tow’ring Dress; | |
| And, after all, you Love not long enough | |
| To pay the Rigging, ere you leave ’em off. | |
| Never content with what you had before, | |
| But true to Change, and English Men all o’er. | 20 |
| Now Honour calls you hence; and all your Care | |
| Is to provide the horrid Pomp of War. | |
| In Plume and Scarf, Jack-Boots and Bilbo Blade | |
| Your Silver goes, that shou’d support our Trade. | |
| Go, unkind Heroes, leave our Stage to mourn, | 25 |
| ’Till rich from vanquish’d Rebels you return; | |
| And the fat Spoils of Teague in Triumph draw, | |
| His Firkin-Butter and his Usquebaugh. | |
| Go, Conqu’rors of your Male and Female Foes; | |
| Men without Hearts, and Women without Hose. | 30 |
| Each bring his Love a Bogland Captive home; | |
| Such proper Pages will long Trains become: | |
| With Copper Collars, and with Brawny Backs, | |
| Quite to put down the Fashion of our Blacks. | |
| Then shall the Pious Muses pay their Vows, | 35 |
| And furnish all their Laurels for your Brows; | |
| Their tuneful Voice shall rise for your Delights; | |
| We want not Poets fit to sing your Flights. | |
| But you, bright Beauties, of whose only sake | |
| Those Doughty Knights such Dangers undertake, | 40 |
| When they with happy Gales are gone away, | |
| With your propitious Presence grace our Play, | |
| And with a Sigh their Empty Seats survey; | |
| Then think, on that bare Bench my servant sate, | |
| I see him Ogle still, and hear him Chat; | 45 |
| Selling facetious Bargains, and propounding | |
| That witty Recreation, called Dum-founding. | |
| Their Loss with Patience we will try to bear, | |
| And wou’d do more, to see you often here; | |
| That our dead Stage, reviv’d by your fair Eyes, | 50 |
| Under a Female Regency may rise. | |
